Don't Fear the Reaper
by DahliaASant
Summary: Whether free or locked in an asylum, Rachel always knew the Joker was going to kill her. Now struggling to put her corrupted lover Harvey behind bars, she has to go to his creator for help...but how long can she survive the Joker' games in the process? Jx
1. Prologue

Author's Notes: Hey everyone, welcome to my second Dark Knight 'fic. I originally wrote this prologue on a whim while suffering writer's block making the next chapter for "Dark Humor," and wasn't sure where exactly the story was headed...I'm honestly still in the works of developing a coherent plot to carry me beyond three or four chapters, but I'm definitely interested in making this as long as "Dark Humor". The POVs are going to be switched up about each chapter between Joker and Rachel, and while Dark Humor was more of a "what-if," this 'fic takes the events of the Dark Knight in a completely different direction. Let me know what you think of the prologue and hopefully Chapter One will be out soon, wayyy sooner than the next chapter of Dark Humor...

Enjoy, and please feel free to review! :)

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**Don't Fear the Reaper**

**Prologue**

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I am going to kill Rachel Dawes.

It's hilarious, randomly _ironic_, that she's with that _Dent._ It's all a part of the _genius,_ the comedic _punch line._ Pretty girl goes for rich man, pretty girl slab of meat for his enemies, pretty girl goes _**KA-BOOM!**_She's lucky really, she hasn't been raped or mugged or swindled, killed off in some _cheap_ way. I'm making her _fa-_mous. Her name will go up in lights (and ash and bone and blood, but those are just the **special effects**)!Really, she should _thank_ me for making her life a tad more…_in-_teres_-ting._Gotham knows _not_ how to thank its hardest working citizens;—especially the ones who _pull the strings!_

No. Keeping her alive—it just won't _do._ It doesn't _work_ that way, not with what I _want._ From the first time I saw her at Brucie's party, there was just some magical _connection (_my knife was oh-so attracted to that **satin skin**, the beautiful **fear** hidden behind those blue blue eyes—oh, to **cut** them out, to **cut** her _**open**_!). No, I had an _urge_, my tongue against my lips, tasting the _ec-_stasy of the fear in those little mouse eyes, the weakness in her _smell._ I _need_to cut into her, to make her bleed, to make her scream. I _needed_ that gratification, and when she kicked me it just made it all _sweeter._

But the Batboy had come out to play. Our little winged rat, flying across the stage to prematurely _end_ the climax (**rising point **of mygrand** debut, **or** ecstatic release? **Perhaps_**both**_**!**). And so I had marked her, hoping to have thrown her out the window in an effort to make those lovely little bones _crunch_ and play with the re-_mains_ (not as fun when she's not alive to be **screaming**, to be struggling…but still, you could do _a lot_ with a body, practical and **serious** things!). But—just as good enough—I had _scarred _her.

I can smell that fear across Gotham, _know_ when she sleeps, she dreams of _me,_ dreams of my knife in her skin, carving the prettiest little lines, the loveliest little _smile_ on her frowning face…always frowning, always so _se-_ri_-ous._ Little princess _Ra_-chel, locked up in her D.A. castle, never having the opportunity to _be,_ to _live,_ to _exist._ Killing her would be a _favor,_ a sweet thing to do indeed!—Releasing her from all those self-righteous bonds, that frowning face that judges everyone to make her feel a _bit _more worthy.

No, she's in my territory now. The little, scampering _mouse._ _My_ city, and she's going to play the games and come out _shining_ and _smiling_ and all dolled up in _red_ (**Or I'll rip your skin apart, I'll rip away with my teeth and my knife and taste your fear and your sweat until there's bone, kill you slowly and scavenge the scraps to feast**). Blood is a sweet, sweet thing:—it just reveals your _true colors,_ and I'm sure hers will taste like _wine,_ like yummy weakness and fear all bubbling down my throat. Lips and blood are red, you know, absolutely _made_ for each other (**and the most convenient thing to find, too, as it's always in self-supplied stock!)**

But I like to play with my _food_ before I eat it. It makes the taste all the more _sweet. _I never expected my little _mousy_ to have fangs…but it's all the _bet-_ter, to make me _crave_ more**more**_**more! **_I watch her sleep, have watched her every night, mem-_o_-rized the curve of her _neck,_ how exactly my lovely knifey would _snip, snip_ at the white skin, learn the quickest way to her succulent little _scalp_ through that hair that I could _twist_ and _rip_, strand by strand…

A tightness in my loins; the very thought of knifey playing makes me _groan,_ and I imagine her pearly skin covered in blood, her eyes wide with revulsion, fear, the faintest hint of defiance…before I cut away—_snip snip snap!—_at the muscles and make her relax into a _smile,_ red and lovely and heat encases me fully and I _do_ _**cut**_ her. I do it slightly, _slow_-ly, a shallow mark on her neck, a neck that aches and begs for bruises, for fingers to wrap themselves around and _squeeze._ The thought excites me and I am forced to pull away, watch the trickle of blood down the white skin, the white sheets, the white mattress. Staining everything with my _mark,_ with my _existence (_**and this is the most exciting thing to happen to you in **_**daysweeksmonths**_** miss Dawes, you won't deny it when you wake up and **_**scream, **_**or feel the thrill of the mark like a lover's **_**bite!**__)_.

I watch her reaction as the cold metal pressed against skin, the blooming blood, the _ec-_stasy inside of me—she sighs, almost leans into the soft metallic _bite,_ and I bite back a peal of laughter and edge towards the window. A vision of her face, shining with tears, overtakes my thoughts, and my laughter booms into the air as I reach the outside, eager and oh so very _anxious _to hear the sobbing when they find _Harvey's _current state.

Sunlight is blooming across the horizon—crooked and red. Like a _smile._


	2. One

**Author's Note:** Hi everyone! Here is the first official chapter of "Don't Fear the Reaper," since I've finished Dark Humor and decided to begin my new Joker/Rachel story as soon as possible. I'm sorry if this first chapter is a bit shaky, but it will flow better and become much more interesting as the story progresses…I'm going to be doing tons of research into the Two-Face character, as well. This fanfiction was loosely inspired by the movie Silence of the Lambs, especially within this first chapter…after that there aren't many similarities but the basic gist of the Joker/Rachel relationship in this 'fic has its influences from it. The chapters are also going to follow a back-and-forth POV between Rachel and the Joker, although Rachel's POV is third person rather than first. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this first chapter, and the second will be up as soon as possible!

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**Don't Fear the Reaper**

**1**

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She didn't like to admit it, but visiting Arkham Asylum in the middle of the night was always a bit unsettling to her.

Of course, she wasn't allowed to _show_ those emotions—such public displays of discomfort were, for Rachel, taboo to becoming any semblance of a successful leader. People didn't like to think those individuals they relied on to prosecute crime were just as feeble and helpless as they were, underneath it all; that they were made of skin and bones and muscle as easy to cut through as paper.

While making her way through the dark Narrows towards the asylum entrance, such thoughts served all but a steady reminder to her that she was mortal. Her small frame, relative in comparison to the burly guards flanking the entrance, was sheltered in a thick trench coat, arms crossed before her chest as a way to both fight the biting cold of frigid midnight hours and to unconsciously shield herself. She recognized her own subconscious gesture with a hint of disgust, even peered into the darkness behind her as if to see if anyone was branding her as a coward.

But no. The Narrows were quiet, stagnant as always at this time. At least, the portion of the Narrows surrounding the asylum.

She didn't really want to think of the area outside of that secluded portion, if only to keep herself straight-faced for the rest of her visit.

"No visitors allowed at this hour, miss."

The guard to the left of the door was speaking to her; a tall, thick-set man whose words seemed polite enough yet whose tone was curious; inquiring. She couldn't see his eyes beneath the darkness that fell in shadows across the asylum's edges, yet she could guess the expression in them: curiosity, with perhaps a hint of amusement. She seemed to get that a lot lately, and wondered whether it was due to her age, her gender, or maybe some unfortunate mix of both. Needless to say, it took all of the force behind her suddenly clenched teeth and too-tight smile not to snap back at him,

"Rachel Dawes. Official D.A. of Gotham city. This is _official_ business, and I need to see one of the patients immediately."

She hoped she sounded as intimidating as she willed herself to appear; arms still crossed, yet tight against her chest in, eyes stern and fixed on the bare outline of the man's unyielding stare. The guard to the right hadn't even spoken; she wondered if he was sleeping, his grip on his rifle slack. Rachel's observations were halted by the sound of a gruff, almost surprised grunt from the guard, whose lips upturned in a slight smirk.

She couldn't tell if it was apologetic, or mocking,

" My apologies. We weren't told of your visit. Please, right this way."

He gestured briefly towards the heavy door before pulling it opened on cracking hinges. Rachel pulled her coat more snugly about her form and immediately stepped through, relieved to feel a bit of comfort at being inside of a building—even if it were one filled with the psychotic. The hallway towards the next door leading into the actual asylum entrance was straightforward and seemingly a mile away. She was glad she wasn't claustrophobic, at least, because the walls were narrow, so narrow she wondered if two people could even fit, standing side-by-side.

It would be over with a few long, hurried steps, though; everything always came to an end. It was a mantra she had learned to tell herself when she had just begun working as assistant D.A., using it to carry her through complex and stressful court cases and piles upon piles of paperwork. This entire uncomfortable night was really no exception to the rule. As she walked forward, footsteps shuffled behind her. She stifled a gasp as she whipped around to face whoever was in the narrow hall with her.

It was the guard from before, coming to an abrupt stop with her own, watching her curiously. She struggled to regain her slightly rattled composure and pressed her lips taut in a stern line,

"Does everyone at Arkham require an escort to the entrance?"

She sounded too snide, too rude for a D.A.; yet at the moment, she was so flustered she didn't really care. The guard's face, now revealed to be sallow-skinned beneath the bulbs, plain and—did he have a cock-eye, or was the light playing tricks on her?—almost ugly, twisted into another smirk,

"Not everyone. The doctor never has escorts; neither do most of the visitors. I just figured…"

He paused and stared at her, then; a lingering, violating stare that caused her skin to prickle uncomfortably. She hated the voraciousness in his eyes, mirrored by so many other men she had become acquainted with through her job. She hated the way she felt so much tinier, so much more insignificant with those berating looks—so much less _human._

"Well," She interrupted him abruptly, her voice curt and near-scathing, "_I'm_ along with those people that don't need escorts. I can handle myself, thank you."

For a moment, it seemed as if he hadn't heard her, he was still _staring._ Rachel felt as if she were being held under a magnifying glass, burned by the glare of the lighting above like a struggling, writhing insect. She kept her gaze just as steely as his, just as persistent, though much more hostile; and finally, _finally,_ he turned his head and walked away, back towards the door he was supposed to be guarding. A chill ran through her spine, causing her to cross her arms again. Did everything about the Asylum have to be unsettling in its own way?

It took her much less time than she had assumed to get to the door, though the floor seemed to spin beneath her with every growing second of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. It was so stagnant, so dead here—everything, even in this tiny expanse of hall, seemed like a prison within a prison, cold and confining and final. She wondered if people admitted here with some semblance of sanity intact would lose it all in this place.

She was at the door, then, immense relief washing over her body. Steeling herself with her hand on the knob, she took in a few deep breaths and glanced back at the other side of the hall, where she had entered. In the darkness that obscured it, the door almost seemed as if it were still open, and she could have sworn she felt that prying, violating stare right through her soul as she pulled the door opened.

*

The sterile smell did nothing to convince her that this place wasn't any less filthy than she had imagined; if not physically, then mentally. The stench of rubbing alcohol filled her nostrils as she walked through the asylum's interior, taking in the blank white walls and envisioning the blank stares of its prisoners before she actually saw them. It was still cold, almost colder than the outside had been—yet this cold was assaulting, persistent, seeming to penetrate her coat and slide underneath her skin.

_Just your mind, playing tricks. _

Rachel took comfort in that thought as she glanced at the stations in which more guards were usually posted, would have normally admitted her further into the asylum after official exchanges. The stations were curiously empty, as if the asylum didn't _have_ guards at this hour, as if they were twisted enough to open the cell doors and let their patients run free, bellowing and crying and attacking and hurting anyone unfortunate enough to be in their way—

_Shut up, Rachel. Just shut up._

She shut her eyes and opened them again, as if doing so would drive the vision from her mind. Rachel quickened her pace across the asylum, knowing the sooner she could finish this, the sooner she would be out of this place. Finally she reached what seemed to be an actual guarded corridor, pure instinct telling her the purpose of her visit would be within a few more steps. Her heels clacked against the floor, causing the eyes of the guards who flanked each cell to wander; unconsciously her own eyes rose above their heads, and she was quickening her pace, the clacking of her shoes resonating in time with her frantic heartbeat.

Where had the doctor told her to go?

_Hall S, room 140. _

She remembered his expression, one of furrowed brows and a strained smile, as if struggling to hide his nervousness at her inquiry. Of _course,_ they would be nervous about any visit to…_him._ It was understandable; expected. His name could provoke fear in many people, yet in her case it just seemed to bring a bout of sudden rage, mixed with frustration. And as she passed Hall R, she felt traces of that rage begin to build, forced herself to relax as she turned a corner into the hall and felt her limbs stiffen slightly.

The hall was dark, save for the occasional flickering of hanging bulbs in the ceiling. No guards stood, though she would have expected the area to be heavily flanked. Her breath shook in her lungs, fingers dug into the palms of her hands.

_Easy, Rachel. You can _do this. You just need to talk to him, need to goad information out of him…

She didn't try to mull over the reason she was there, exactly why she needed to speak to him in the first place. Doing so would distract her, and Arkham Asylum seemed the least convenient place at the moment to suffer a panic attack. Rachel mentally steeled herself and walked towards hall S, her heels clacking too loudly and sharply against the floor, her gaze steady and forward, passing room after room after room. The strangest noise caught her attention, then; something loud and screeching, then curiously quieter, and she froze to make sense of it…

A piano.

It was soft at first; a quiet, low tinkling along the outskirts of the corridor. Then, as she gathered enough courage and curiosity to quicken her steps, the tinkling became an overwhelming crescendo. Never could she have imagined to hear an instrument being played so…there was no _word_ for it, really, but being played at all in an asylum was…strange. The music would have been beautiful if it weren't so…chaotic, the notes in a frenzied jumble, as if Mozart were suffering a fever and an injection of illegal drugs. The hair along the back of her neck began to rise—as to _why,_ she had no idea, yet it was as if every chord, every note was carefully constructed into something of discord and yet of exquisite _harmony,_ the after-effect an ugly yet entrancing power.

There were still no guards the further she went, which was even more peculiar. The music was resonating within her bones, permeating her skin like a sickly violation—made all the more disturbing because she didn't exactly _object_ to it. Her heels clacked hollowly against the ground, loud and absurdly harmonious with the music which seemed to have no rhythm or purpose, except to abhor and fascinate, like a dead body upon the street –helpless to gawk at, no matter how ferociously your senses opposed it.

Her stomach churned at the sudden ear-splitting volume of the music, brought to a deafening crescendo that made her very nerves shudder. A shock of green hair, greasy and mussed, ghastly pale limbs working with a savage harmony against a plain brown crudely shaped instrument, fingers banging rapidly and frenzied against the keys—two on one key, three on two, a whole fist—before stopping completely, as if the intensity of the music had paralyzed him.

It was then that she realized she too, was standing frozen, staring at the backside of the Joker. Well, it was as much as she could make out in the darkness—a faint orange glow against his pale skin, presumably his suit within Arkham. The rest of him seemed to be hidden within the shadows, like a thick veil of black water; only odds and ends of his body surfacing and bobbing into view.

The silence settled within her like a stone against her lungs. She couldn't bring herself to speak; not with the sudden spark within her, the breathlessness mingling with an acidic biting that threatened to tear through her insides and devour her whole. She sucked in a long, desperate breath, felt the deep inhale disorient her slightly. Straightening her coat, she ran fingers through her hair and struggled to regain her composure—though she knew, beyond the ink-blackness, that somehow he was _watching_ her, the eyes everywhere at once, anywhere but his skull. Always watching, always violating…even in her dreams.

"Helloooooo, Miz _Dawez._"

A low, mocking drawl ghosted through the darkness, made her skin crawl with its prickling familiarity. Unconsciously, her hands balled into fists, and the feeble scar on her neck burned against her flesh. Rachel allowed herself to narrow her eyes in the direction of his voice. It was almost useless to mask the heated red fury behind papery white apathy.

"Hello."

Her voice was restrained, tight through clenched teeth. He could sense it; a low, bemused chuckle flew from the thick plastic barrier between them, and she could feel his stare even if she couldn't see his face. She felt him appraise her, felt it in the stagnant air, the drawn length of his pause. Her breath caught in her lungs and she imagined, fleetingly, a flicker of her fist smashing against a laughing, painted face—but then he grunted slightly, and spoke again, voice teetering on the edge of another chuckle,

"You don't seem very _pleased_ to see me. Don't tell me you didn't _miss_ me, es-_pe-_cially since you're all _a-_lone in your little day job now?"

Eyes squeezed shut momentarily as her nails dug into skin. The pressure of her nails against her palms could draw blood, yet it wouldn't satisfy her—_nothing_ would, until…

_Until what? You're being silly. Concentrate on the task at hand, Rachel…no time to get emotional now, especially when you need answers._

A quick exhale. It was heavy and labored, and _his _ears caught them; a giggle escaped the plastic barrier, loud enough to be heard, amused enough to prick at her frayed nerves,

"No one's _here,_ ya know," he began, his voice quiet as the _scritch _of cat's claws against a mouse's nape, "The guards…we make little _comp-_romises. I'm the only one in this…_hall, _in fact. The very _bad_ boys sleep here, ya see, and they're _oh-so _af-_raiiidd_ of what I can bring…_out-_tuh in them."

She could feel his smile widen and tighten, like the strings of composure within her mind, run taut and trembling within only a few seconds of conversation. _Pathetic, Rachel, you're being pathetic, letting this bastard get to you within _seconds,_ it's what he wants, don't you see? How are you going to get what _you_ want if you're acting like this, so erratic and…_

"…It's like what I did to your _lover-_boy. What did they call him? _No,_ it wasn't just Gotham's _white knight…_"

He was leaning backwards, now, the green hair burning beneath the fluorescent light cast from the hall, the exposed white of his neck and ears like a reanimated corpse. And all the while he was _smiling,_ pondering, while her breath quickened and her heels dug into the floor, the familiar grinding motion of her _frustration…_

"_Bastard,_" she hissed quietly through the barrier, and the Joker chuckled in response.

"Oh, you know, I haven't been called _that_ one before!" His voice dripping with sarcasm, she could see him resting his head upon his palms, watching her through upturned eyes, "But, really, if you _want_ me to remember, I can try and think of…all the gritty _de_-tailsss. What led to…what do they _call _him, now?! Oil drums, lover-boy tied up tight like a little _piggy,_ squealing and squealing _Raaa-_chel, _Raaa-_chel…"

A yelp of surprise; the scritch-_scratch_ of Rachel's nails against the plastic, the pressure so hard she felt them threatening to break, drawing long lines to scratch the barrier between them. She wondered if this wasn't erected for the safety of the sane against the patients; but rather, the safety of the patients against the vengeful. At that moment, she didn't _care_ how much of a hazard he was; Harvey's face imprinted itself into her mind, and her heart churned painfully.

"_No, no, no._" He shook his head, as if speaking to himself rather than the tense woman before him, and steepled bare hands in mid-air, as if lost deep within thought, "I believe they called him…Harvey _two-_face? Oh, yes, _that_ was it!" A chuckle from his lips, "Is _that_ his stage-name now, what they _call _him? Oh, I'll find out anyway, he'll be here in due _time-uh, _or maybe I'll read it in the _head-_lines, '_Harrveeeey-_two-_face _found _dead,_ shot in the _first _face, second being _question-_ed—!"

"STOP IT! Stop it, you sick _fuck!_"

The air went static. Rachel came back to reality; her fingers clenched, jaw trembling, hair askew from the wild shaking of her head as she had screamed. Turning around with a deep, shaken breath, she felt a bead of sweat dissolve, trickling across her throat, between her breasts. Even when she was turned around, staring down at her hands, she could feel him _watching,_ could feel the single droplet against her skin almost burning, as if struggling to burrow beneath her flesh, to penetrate her, sink deep within…the scar on her throat tickled slightly and her fingers touched the crest-like mark before pulling away as if repelled, bile rising.

The faintest of chuckles within the cell was the only indication he was still _there._ She could no longer see the shock of green hair, the outlines of the sunken, corpse-like face, white as if a mere apparition of her distraught mind. The thought unsettled her, yet she whipped around to face the cell directly, unwilling to allow him to see anymore displays of weakness.

"This…" She wet her lips with her tongue, a quick motion, her fingers clasped tightly behind her back, "…this is all a game, isn't it? It's how you play, Joker. Nothing with you is ever…"

_Normal? Sane? _

"…simple."

She began to approach the cell again, although the ink-darkness seemed to reach out for her with cold fingers, prod into her mind and wrap around her brain, sink into her spine. Rachel fought the shudder that struggled to surface, pressed thin, delicate fingertips to the hard thick glass. It was cold to the touch, the near-iciness prickling at her nerves. She wouldn't let him see her flinch, wouldn't let him scare her. Not _today._ Not when she needed this, needed these answers more than ever.

Her face inched towards the barrier, eyes near-blinded by the thick darkness within. It seemed solid, like smog, something she could touch with her fingers and withdraw with dark stains. Something that could slide into your lungs and suffocate your innards before you knew what was happening.

She was so close to the glass her lips nearly pressed against the panel, her breath making frosted imprints upon the surface.

"I need information to help us capture a criminal who's been terrorizing Gotham. And he's…difficult to catch. I can't find…_Harvey…_alone. Can't put him behind bars without an insight into his head. And who better to go than his…"

Her mind nearly throbbed at the word, the mental pain thrashing within her, aching to be set free,

"…_maker._"

Silence dragged along, heavy and suffocating. It was as if she were buried within a coffin, with no option but to scream and struggle until she was heard. Yet to get what she wished for was unlikely, impossible.

_This isn't going to be impossible. I'm going to fucking do it. I _need _to do it._

"What do you _want,_ Joker? To get you to cooperate?"

She whispered at the barrier, a near hiss. Her voice drifted along the darkness, and the silence continued for so long she was unsure he had heard anything she had said. Her fingernails tapped against the plastic, ached to sink in and trail scratches along the surface, anything close enough to harm the resident within.

Rachel didn't expect the soft pitter-patter noise within the cell, almost like rain. She pulled back slightly, her eyes widening, her heart gasping from a rudely awakened slumber. Droplets formed against the ground, thick and huge against the darkness it permeated. They were red, and only seemed to increase in speed; bloody rain coalescing into thunderstorms against the cell's edge.

Her heels dug sharply into the ground as she felt her_ damned _legs quiver; she was moving backwards, about to walk away, to _run,_ to report what was happening to the nearest guard, _wherever_ he was—

The voice startled her. It was stronger, now, and seemed to echo from all around in the suddenly too-small, too-confining hall.

"What I _want?" _

_Drip. Drop. Drip. _

The blood was falling rhythmically, as if in tune with his words. Rachel hated herself for standing there, yet that was all she found she could do, petrified and paying careful attention to the sudden chuckle that seeped through the air and into her brain.

"Do you know what…I _am,_ Miss _Dawezz?_ I am _not-tuh_ a man to be bargained with."

_Drip. Drop. _

The blood was forming a miniature puddle against the corner of the cell. The source seemed to come from nowhere; the darkness was too thick, as much as she strained her eyes against it to _see,_ to see and understand what the _hell_ was going on.

"You see…I'm not your average…_hu-_man. Not your con-_stit-_uent, your _cri-_mi-_nal_ case. I'm a man--an _a-_gent—of _cha-_os. I _have_ no deals, unless they're made on _my_ terms. And when _I_ want something…I intend to _get _it, one way oranotherrrrr."

The final word was said in a sing-song voice, rising and falling in emphasis as he spoke. As he finished, the sound of a sharp _crack_ filled the room, echoed across the walls, assaulting her panicked senses as she willed herself to _stay calm, stay still, stay strong…_

A fresh downpour of blood splattered within the cell, blooming like a shower of petals across the ground. She summoned every inch of strength within her to press the back of her hand against her mouth, fighting back the bile that rose, the tears that threatened to surface.

She had to regain her control of the situation. _Wasn't that what Harvey would do?_

She had to do this, for _him._ To detain him, to put him back under control, to…

_To somehow change him._

The very thought seemed absurd, now, standing and practically being suffocated by primal, throttling fear. Her skin prickled as she stared down at the blood, transfixed, his words hypnotic.

_I am _not-tuh_ a man to be bargained with…_

Something flashed through her mind. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, an after-effect of the panic within her; she could swear she saw Harvey's face in the back of her head; his pure, calm, uninjured face, the smile a soothing balm to her flame, the eyes half-opened in silent adoration as they lay in bed…

Something in her tore; she could practically hear the ripping in her mind, and whether fevered or delusional, she could not ignore the pain.

…_I _have _no deals, unless they're made on _my _terms._

"Let's make a deal, Joker."

_Drip._

The blood suddenly stopped its rampant flowing, as if staunched somehow. Only soft droplets fell each second, and she managed to find some semblance of calm within her to stand up straight and stare with narrowed eyes into the blackness of the cell. The silence was suddenly _alive,_ as if she could _feel _him thinking, considering, and the effect was like a drug. She, too, felt the rush of adrenaline in her system, the gratification of getting _through,_ as little as her victory was.

"What do you _want-_tuh?"

His voice was careful, considering. She came closer to the cell, practically leaning against it, her eyes probing, desperately searching in the solid mass of darkness,

"I want you to help me capture Har…"

She was about to stutter the name; eyes squeezed shut, fingers scratched against the cell as she struggled to find her words, to fight back against the tears that pricked along her eyes.

_Shut up, Rachel. Shut up and pull it together and do what needs to be _done.

"…Two-face. I need information, any and all I can get, and…in return…"

She hesitated. The quiet was deafening; she was reminded of the coffin in her head, again, of the screams within her mind, screaming and banging for someone to _listen,_ someone to _help…_

"…The choice is yours. I'll repay you whatever way you see fit."

She felt as if she had submerged herself in ice. Her limbs trembled at her words, not from fear, but at sheer disbelief they had come from _her_ lips. It was the desperation that brought her nape to chill, that made her stomach churn. A giggle pierced the darkness, building up into a steady, bemused chuckle. The high-pitched voice gained strength as he spoke, so loud she feared the plastic barrier would crack,

"Ohhh, miss _Dawezz! _How very _gen-_er-_ousss _of you! I will _help-_puh you best I _can…_and you're _really_ willing to play on _my_ terms?"

It was a chess game.

He was in the black square, she standing in the white, feeble and trembling. The pawn to his king. A wrong move, she would be destroyed; though _how,_ she was unsure. His wrong move, she could take him for what she needed, could use him from Arkham to put her former lover behind bars.

He couldn't get out of there. Not with so many guards, with so many restraints…

_Impossible._

"Yes."

She answered quickly, though her mind ran even faster. _The police will know about this, Gordon, even Batman. After he's through with his end of the bargain I don't have to listen; I can ensure he's locked up in a fucking _cage _and tortured to death as far as I care, as long as I get what I want. I can't trust him, _he's_ the reason for this, for _all _of this…_

"_You_."

She blinked. Rachel had to pause and register what he had said, and even then, her brows furrowed and she shook her head,

"…_what_?"

"We're playing by _my_ bargain, Miss _Dawweezz. _You gave me your _word-_duh. And when I give you your dear ol' _Harveeey-_boy, I would like…_you._"

She felt as if someone had punched her, straight in the gut. Rachel struggled for air, a short gasp from her lips at the Joker's words.

Her?

How?

Why?

What did he want with _her?_

"I…"

The word floated uselessly in the static air. Another chuckle boomed throughout the hall, excited and roughened with a sinister amusement. The floor seemed to shudder and fall away beneath her; whether it was from the laughter or her shock, she couldn't tell.

"The deal is _sealed_, Miss _Dawwesss._ I'm not an _idiot_, however. I _know_ you don't intend to give me what _I _want. But I'm an _hon-_orable man, and I'll receive my end of the _bar-_gain one way or another. You leave _quite _an impression on Gotham's _finest,_ you know. It got me quite…_cur-_ious. I even _branded_ you…and your blood was _ohhh_ so tast-_y. _I may come back for another..._taste-_uh, do be a _dar-_ling and keep the _windows _open?"

The horror that flooded her veins made her take a step backwards, yet it quickly died down in favor of anger. Rachel shoved her fists against the glass, her lip quivering into a near-snarl,

"You won't _leave_ this cell, Joker! I take my words back, I owe you _nothing,_ you took Harvey away from me and I'm not about to let you take _me_ as well! Do you hear me?! I'm not going to let you—"

Something flew at her. Bulging eyes plastered into the window, the scarred and slashed face's mouth open in a gaping scream, mirroring her own. The security guard's head was the only thing visible, his body disconnected in the darkness, sliding across the plastic panel in a trail of slippery thick blood from the severed throat, the gashes in the cheeks and head, the _smile_ carved across the open-mouthed face…

She ran.

Laughter bounded all about her, echoing across the halls, trailing at her feet like rampant, froth-mouthed dogs. She ran and ran, along the long, abandoned hallways, her hands pressed frantically against her ears, tears staining her cheeks as the laughter pounded in her head, in her veins, against her heart. Rachel stumbled halfway on her heels, pulled herself up, practically hopping across to the exit, the door that seemed too far, that led to nothing but the cold, assaulting darkness.

The sun was bleeding against the horizon. As she ran for her car, drove into Gotham, found no solace in her locked apartment, she stared through at the sky, the jagged black skyscrapers and the light beyond.

Every time she looked, she could see a bloody smile; as if it were everywhere.


	3. Two

**Author's Note: **Here comes chapter 2! This chapter is in the Joker's POV, and is quite short. It's honestly difficult to write lengthy chapters with story progression from the Joker's point of view, especially since he's currently locked up in Arkham, but I shall try. For now I might have to stray from my Joker-Rachel-Joker back and forth POVs, though, until certain plot devices kick in to make his POV more usable…we'll see. School is also starting up and I'm trying to keep each chapter in the same quality level as the last, so hopefully I'll be able to follow through on that while keeping updates consistent. Feel free to read and review, and above all else, enjoy!

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**Don't Fear the Reaper**

**2**

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**

She will be _back._

I know it in her eyes; the endless voids, the _fear_ in them…fear and the familiar _lust_ that lingers within _all_ of us. For blood, for death, for _**ven**_**-geance**. Good ol' Danny-boy's head is in my lap. I stroke his hair, feel the lovely little _gashes _across his face, the smile etched upon his skin, _al-_ways there, _al-_ways _happy._ He smiles because he's found _perm-_a-_nence, _the type that only _death_ could bring. Death and _**power.**_

"I wonder who will _miss_ you, Danny-boy," I speak to him, and his eyes roll when I start to bob the head back and forth, as if he's really _list-_en-_ing,_ "no kids…not even a wife at home. Your dear ol'-mum was sick, wasn't she? Oh, that's _too_ bad…guess she'll have to die a _lonely_ death, much like yours—! But without the screams, or the _smile…_"

Unless I got out of here a tad _early._ I could do his lonely little mother a _favor_ or two. Or three, gaping, bleeding favors along her _**throat,**_ that is. I lay my body back against the wall, feeling quite content at the moment—Danny lulls against my lap, quite the _rowdy_ little boy.

"Come, Danny, _do_ rest up a bit."

I giggle and launch his head half-heartedly against the ground. He rolls about, spilling blood against the floor, before settling with his eyes against the ground, like an obedient little puppy. I swing my legs over my bed at the sound of _scuffling_ against the hall, like eeny little mice sniffing the bloody red _cheese,_ unknowing just how _deadly _the little kitten can _be._ They're here, a mass of screaming and bewildered faces, mouths opened in "o's" that would look _so_ much prettier when _slashed _and _sliced_ and _silenced, _guns like toys held up to me, fingers _trembling_ on triggers, a white-robed psychiatrist with her glasses askew and her hands clamped over her face, and I'd like to _**cut**_ apart those tiny fingers to see the horror beneath, the revulsion and the _**hatred**_like adrenaline to my veins—

The cell soars open. Bodies run in, armed and shouting, sacks of living _flesh_ no stronger than children, with their black toys and needles_ fluttering _in the air. Laughter tears through me as I watch their _patheticness,_ the _weakness_ in their eyes as they attack me blindly, a shower of limbs that I toss away effortlessly, the syringes stabbing into my flesh, and _ooh_ the pain is so _wonderful,_ setting my nerves _aflame,_ and I'm _floating floating __**flying**_in the drugs that try to sedate me, but my heart is skipping and the delicious _pain_ seeps through and makes me _hot,_ and for a moment I can see _her,_ all weak little doe-eyes and quivering lips, the sheer _murder_ in her eyes, blood across her face while her hands dig into me, like the syringes that _stab stab __**stab**_ and I relish it, and I am laughing, always laughing, even into the _darkness._

Blinding lights, the stage is set; the curtains open with the flicker of my eyes. Heavy, drooping, _drugged._ The weakness brings my fists through the air, falls short and restrained against my chest. I am _bound, _restrained, like a vicious little _dog._ A giggle; they like to play _games,_ here, even when they know it's _I _who deals the cards. They dress me up all _love-_ly in white. I am a co-_coon, _and none of them know when _I _will decide to become a but-_ter-_fly.

I float through the hall, screeching wheels and armrests, a metallic _god._ They watch me, flank me, like uncertain followers; eyes appraising and fearful at once, sweat dripping with _awe._ The lights above are hot on my scalp, the familiar itch of my hair _searing_ with pleasant love-_ly _pain; a smile stretched taut on my skin, so taut I hope and pray it will break into _bleed-_ing; but only _I_ answer my prayers, and so it goes in vain.

"…higher doses of lithium, sedatives, any drug you can fucking _find,_"

A crude little hiss into a white-coat's ear; she nods and listens to his angry little whispers, _**freak, crazy bastard**__,_ and I raise my head in in-_ter-_est, as the wheels _squeak _and _squawk,_

"That's _Joker_ to you," I interrupt, singing the words in rhythm with the squeaking and squawking, a giggle at their awkward silence, at the tension in their pause.

_Perfect._ The fear. The intimi-_dation._ I shut my eyes and drink in the sudden silence, until the _squeak_ stops and the door opens and slams. My eyes are still shut as they pull me from the wheels, servicing their _mas-_ter, and I sit against a chair, my wrists shackled to the armrests. Eyes open to register the pressure of the metal on my hands, and I suck in a low breath, rolling my eyes,

"Well, _that's_ creative, didn't see it coming. Next time we could be _tad _less…predict-_table,_ maybe leave me un-_cuffed,_ really catch me off-guard—"

"Shut up and stay quiet! Next time we knock you out, you won't be gettin' back up!"

Burly man is shouting at me—_me,_ of all _people?—_trying to ruin my _fun. _I _scan_ him, eye him like a piece of meat on my _plate, _see the fear within his bulging eyes and tight mouth, his crossed arms and _rotund_ frame. I wince skeptically and shake my head, not _truly_ comprehending his words.

"Are you im-_plying…_you're going to _kill_ me?"

I laugh; a sound of disbelief, shaking in my little white cocoon, nearly doubling over as I gasp for breath,

"Well _that's_ a good one! What's your name—let me guess. Something…_basic._ Maybe a little, ah—_Southern?_ Billy bob, perhaps? No, your momma was probably a bitter old lady, gave birth to you in the back of a barn, maybe the parking lot of a _drive-_thru. Grew up to be a heavy man-_hatin'_ old shrew, isn't that right, _Billy?_ Live through your food, using it to fill up all your _rage,_ what is that—gluttony, they call it? Someday you're hoping you'll just explode, from all your self-hatred and your _guilt_, all the blood vessels _popping_ away and you're _smiling_ because you've _finally_ found something in your life you can _control!—"_

Delicious _**pain**_fills me up as Billy's hands compress around my throat; lack of air and I'm _gagging_ and laughing amidst the gagging, wheezing and whistling through my lips, and he's shouting and screaming in a _frenzy_ while with every squeeze my body goes _hot_ and I'm _imploding_, darkness falling all around me, wonderful aching _**darkness**__—_

Billy is thrown to the ground, and I groan in protest, sticking my hands up inside my jacket,

"Way to ruin the _fun!_ We were just getting to the _good _part."

A cop has him restrained, locked in his grip like a vice; I watch with sparks of pleasure in my veins as he restrains him, pressing him to the ground, tip of his gun in his cheek. All he has to do is _blow,_ pull the _trigger,_ watch the pretty blood fall, _explode,_ a hollow in his face and the grinning muscle exposed in his cheek—the smile beneath the façade of _normalcy. _The _**freak**_beneath the skin.

"Ooh!" I yelp in a near-ecstasy, watching the cop curse at Billy to be _still,_ or he'll pump a round of lead into his face, "this just keeps getting better and better. _Why _didn't anyone tell me Arkham was so much _fun?"_

A voice interrupts me, all-too familiar and so very _frustrating._ I rolled my eyes at the _sound_ of it,

"if fun is your idea of watching others go through pain, Joker, I can put you through a great deal of fun right now."

The _rasp_ of his voice, as if struggling to conceal his identity so _vehemently_ he loses himself within that idiotic little mask. I wonder just _who_ he thinks he's fooling, when we all know it's only _himself—_the man beneath the mask doesn't _exist,_ is a mere shadow of the bat lying outside. But he'd never come to terms with that—and so I _**smile**__,_ gleeful all the while to be able to entertain my latest visitor.

"Oh, _Batsy,_ how I've _missed_ you!" I let out a cackle of happiness, one that dies on my lips as _Bat-_sy bounds forward, all the delicious seething anger and _rage_ within his eyes smoking black in the sockets of his mask, all his _failures _and _guilt_ rising to a breaking point as he sees me, as he _aches_ to destroy his little foolish rule and _kill_ me.

Not that I blamed him.

Killing is _**quite**_enjoyable.

Much to my _dismay,_ he restrains himself, inches away from my simpering little frame. Standing before my presence, Gotham's vigilante is quite unnerved and unfocused; and it fills me with pure _joy,_ knowing I am having such a passive ef-_fect._ Just imagine the wonders I could wreak upon his childish little mind, once I'm free of my restraints, flying and ready to _destroy_ again.

What I could do to his pretty little _Ra-_chel— ripping the wings from _two_ birds between my hungry little jaws.

"Your time is up, Joker. I need information, and I need it now."

Cold, beautiful _anger_ in his slit-_ted_ eyes—it's _wonderful,_ brings a smile to my face. My silly little _bat,_ trying to fight his _hu-_man urges, pushing himself further a-_way_ from humanity _itself_ in the process…until one day he will lose com-_plete_ control, bloody and _screaming,_ breaking that one _silly_ little rule.

I hope I am the one to give him that final _push._

It would be my _greatets _pleasure.

"Well, you know what they _say, _Bat-_syyyy,"_

I drawl with disinterest, and I would have raised a finger had my co-_coon_ allowed me,

"if ya want infor-_ma-_tion, ya gotta _pay_ for it—"

A chair goes flying through the air like a helpless little _bird_, smashing into the wall with a most delightful _bang_. The impact makes the plaster rain _white_ and lovely in the air, and I bite back a delighted cackle. Bodies scramble _for-_ward and _back-_ward like little wind-up dolls, some picking up the chair, others flanking the _beast_ that is my dear little _bat._

"_Pathetic!_"

The word slips in a giggle as I _watch_ him, his fists clenched, breath hot like a raging _bull._ (Well _charge_ at me Batsy-_boy,_ do what you are _dying _to do, rip me to _**shreds**_and _**ribbons**_and grind my _**bones**_in your teeth, make me scream and _**howl**_and _**beg**_ for mercy—but in my case it would be _more __**more **__more _pain, _more_ agony, _more hurt--!)_

" Joker! You _touch_ Rachel or harm her in _any_ way, I will make you _regret_ it!"

That angry little _snarl,_ so harsh, his tone of voice. It would almost be _hurt_ful if it wasn't so darned _enjoyable._

"Ooooh," I roll my eyes and bat my lashes, "whatever do you _mean,_ Batsy? _Hurt_ her? I simply like to _play _with her a bit, like how a cat plays with its _food,_ biting and clawing before it tears them to _tiny_ little shreds—!"

A scream of rage fills the air, the bodies of policemen grabbing at Batsy's arms. Yet he'll have _none_ of it, he flings them off and he's running _toward_ me again, and I smile with delight, my nails digging into palms in lovely _**pain,**_waiting for him to come _closer, __**closer—**_

"If you touch him we'll get into a shitload more of trouble with the staff than you'd think! Stop it right now!"

I _sigh_ as Gordon waltzes in, his face tomato-red and near-_comical._

Always ruining my _fun,_ that man.

"How else are we going to get him to _talk,_ Gordon?!"

Batsy is _fuming,_ his hands _flailing_ in a dance around my skull. Wanting _needing __**aching**_ to hurt me, yet the Co_-miss-_ioner is fixing his glasses and putting his hands up, speaking quietly, taming the inner animal that will come back to _**bite**_with a vengeance,

"Not like this. He enjoys the pain. You're the one who told me that, don't you remember, when we interrogated him about—"

Batsy _stares _him down with his dark little bea-_dy _eyes, and I giggle at the thought. Oh how he had _hurt_ me, had bruised and _bat-_terred and _**bled**_ me when dear ol' _Harrr-_vey went missing, demanding to _know_ where he was, drumming _e-_very question into my _skull _with his _**fist**__, _while I _drowned _in all my laughter and _glee._

"Oh, is it about _Harrr-_vey Two-Face _Dent_ again?! That man is _quite_ popular, these days, second time in a _row_ I get his _fans_ asking for him…"

I try and lean back against my chair, my limbs deliciously numb. Gordon and _Bat-_sy both stare at me, one with sur-_prise,_ the other re-_vulsion._ Ah, how lovely to be in the spotlight again, to have _control._

"Ya see, he's…a _cal-_culating man. Not like _me._ I don't have plans, but _he _does."

They listened, drawn in like _moths _to my words, fire stoked within my mind. I pause and watch them, feeling the strain within them, savoring it. My brows raise and I sigh in ex-_as-_peration,

"Well _I'm_ not going to _tell_ them to you. That wouldn't be fun, _would_ it? Es-_pe-_cially with you being all _rude_ to me earlier, _that's_ not how you entertain a _guest,_ is it?"

"A guest?" Batsy scowls at me, his lips twisting into a _snarl, _"You're staying here until you rot, Joker. This is your new home, where people like you belong!"

"Oh, _every-_thing is _tem-_porary, my _Bat-_sy boyyyy," I sigh dismissively, leaning against the seat, wondering how much pressure it would take to _fall,_ "Galaxies, cities, people…_lives, sanities,_ we like to think they last for-_e-_ver. But we're only puppets on a _string,_ we _rot_ eventually, and when the string _snaps_ who's going to pull us along, we'll have no choice to _decay_! That's what your little _Harrr-_vey did, ya see, his string was _pulled_—not at all by _my_ doing, of course, and he's decaying now, and hopefully _you'll _find the remains before his little _girl-_friend runs into him—"

"_That's enough_, Joker!"

Gordon's turn to _scream_ at me, ruining the fun yet _again,_ just when Batsy's face seems to _twist_ into something beastly.

I chuckle at the outburst, a child silenced at his game, balancing the blocks as delicately as their _minds,_ too much and they'll topple, too little and it won't quite have an _ef-_fect. Their faces change, shifting into worry, and they realize something all at once; nothing some good ol' _prodding_ could do.

"We'll need to watch her. Two-Face was taking his vengeances out on the mob. Could he have some sort of agenda?" Gordon's voice is stern and oh-so _serious,_ so _boring_.

Doesn't he know there is no _use?_ It can't be stopped, not _now, _not when things are set into such perfect _motion._ Nothing can be stopped from _breaking,_ and her life is ripe for the taking; as all of Gotham's _always_ is.

Batsy _glares _at me again, the bestial rage and loathing alive in his eyes, struggling to set free and _hurt_, and I provoke him with my stare, _need_ him to _do it._ He tears his gaze away, yet I _smile,_ chuckle, knowing he had been so very _close._

With my little _Ra-_chel in the game, the king _will _fall. He nods his pointed little head, turns his heel to leave, speaking over his shoulder as if he is _any_ bit _frightening_ to me,

"You touch anyone or even make a _noise_ out of this asylum, Joker; you'll have hell to pay. This isn't going to be the first time we see you."

The _seething_ in his lips sets fire to my ribs; I cackle in delight, high-pitched and growing in intensity,

"Oh my _Bat-_sy, we've just started to play this _game!_"

And how _enjoyable_ a game it was shaping up to be.


End file.
